The wound on your shoulder from the plate that your parents threw at you stings and you run to god knows where, panting like hell. Your adrenaline is the only thing keeping you standing.

Without realizing, you run past whizzing bullets into a battlefield. A large hand tightly grasps your arm, with a surprising gentleness, and pulls you to a safe place.

“Bloody hell kid, what’re ye doing here? Where’re yer parents, hm?”

The Scottish sargeant, Soap, says gruffly